POTC II: The Legend of Konrad's Cavern
by Ms-Critique
Summary: The sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean - when the lust for treasure leads Captain Jack Sparrow and his entourage into dire danger, who will survive to tell the tale? Read and Review!
1. Freedom

Author's Ramblings: Big huggles to Nicola who helped me pick through the nitty-gritty problems with the plot, you rock, deary. This fiction is dedicated to you, girly! ^_^ . Please read and review all, while this is hardly my first fiction, this is the first one I've posted on ff.net. This super-short chapter is more of an introduction, I hope you enjoy it.  
  
Note: For those of you who are wondering, 'mujerzuela' is Spanish for slut.  
  
Chapter One  
  
There she stood, stripped, naked, and beaten, her pale toes clinging desperately to the worn wooden plank beneath them. A bitter sea breeze blasted her bare frame, spewing tall white columns of salty water into her raw, ravaged face. It was almost oddly fitting, somehow, that the sea itself should despise her so.  
  
"Just jump, you dirty little mujerzuela!" snarled Hernandez, and Gwendolyn could imagine the spanish Captain's sharp, sallow features contorting into an oily mass of raging, twisted flesh.  
  
"Cap'n!" Piped up one of the crew, his toothless grin appearing as he leered lecherously at their female captive. "Yer forgettin' ta mark 'er."  
  
A sadistic, devilish spark flickered in the Captain's cold, black eyes before he barked out his order.  
  
"Bring her here!"  
  
Several members of the crew gleefully obeyed, their greasy hands reaching out to paw clumsily at her body as they hauled her before their master, her hands clapped firmly in iron shackles. Gwendolyn fought back the nausea that rose violently in her throat, her chin stuck out in defiance as she observed the despicably slippery man before her. He drew from his leather belt an ornately engraved dagger of pure gold, which gleamed wickedly in the fading sunlight.  
  
"Turn her around," he sneered viciously, "I'm going to enjoy this."  
  
She was promptly jerked around, the smooth, white skin of her back presented to him. Without warning, searing pain raced along Gwendolyn's left shoulder, but she brought her teeth down mercilessly on her lower lip to keep from crying out. For an endless moment it seemed she was suspended there, the tip of the dagger carving cruelly through her flesh. Droplets of blood glimmered like liquid rubies against alabaster, and she felt Hernandez's sour mouth envelop the wound, sucking the trembling garnet beads free from her body. He smacked his thin lips together, a grotesque smile twisting his villainous features.  
  
"Another one for the record, lads!" He cried, and this declaration from their leader met with a roar of approval from the crew.  
  
"Now jump, ya worthless wench!"  
  
Gwendolyn needed no further urging.  
  
She flung herself over the edge, her arms outstretched as she plummeted toward the dark, tumultuous waters roiling ominously below. Her lithe form hit the ocean with a sickening smack, the turbulent current swallowing her whole. Gwendolyn's pain-fogged brain was swept about in a wave of incoherent logic as her legs beat desperately toward the choppy surface, her dark head breaking through as she gasped raggedly for a breath. Her lungs burned as the salt-laden air tore down her throat, her body wracked with choking gasps of panic. She swept her bound arms through the water, her legs splaying awkwardly either side as she swam steadily toward a black smudge on the horizon that she frantically hoped would prove to be her salvation in these hopelessly dire straights. 


	2. Unlikely Rescue

Chapter Two  
  
A violent squall of wind rippled across the Caribbean, filling the sails of the notorious Black Pearl as she made for the distant horizon, her bow rising and dipping as it negotiated the broken ocean waters. Captain Jack Sparrow leaned into the wheel, his blackened fingers gripping the smooth timber in a tight, almost possessive grasp. This is what he lived for; the wild cry of challenge that issued from the dank depths of the sea that elicited from his soul an irresistible response of audacity.  
  
"Jack!" cried Ana Maria, who was currently stationed in the crow's nest. "There be a wreck!"  
  
His kohl-rimmed eyes scanned the endless expanse of the deep blue waters, but to no avail. There were no signs of debris; no broken planks, no crates, and certainly no bodies . simply nothing to indicate what Ana Maria had suggested. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted back:  
  
"I don't be seein' what ye mean!"  
  
"Sharks, loads of 'em! Heading to that island nor-nor-east!" she replied, tossing down her telescope from her precariously high position. Raising the eyepiece to his face, Jack peered intently at a distant patch of water, and jumped in surprise when he spotted a group of at least half a dozen sharks heading towards the small patch of land a good two hours away. Could have easily torn open their hull on the reef nearby, he mused as he stroked his plaited beard thoughtfully. The sharks would be after the dead . and the survivors. But there could be some profit in it yet, particularly for him and his crew.  
  
"Set course nor-nor east, ya filthy rogues!" he roared over the screaming winds. Ana Maria gave a whoop of delight, the rigging groaning as the mainsail turned to face its destination.  
  
~*~  
  
Gwendolyn slowly dragged her eyes open, recoiling at the bright Caribbean sun pounding down upon her limp, desolate form. Small waves lapped greedily at her petite ankles, the sound of the tide thundering and ringing in her ears. Where on earth was she? Her drugged senses battled to make sense of her surroundings. She made a move to push herself into a sitting position, but was stopped by pain that shot through her shoulder like white-hot fire. It seemed, as she tried best to decipher the signals her body was sending her, that she had also cut her hip open on a piece of jagged coral on the reefs just offshore. Coarse, blindingly white sand bit into her wounds, causing them to sting ferociously. Digging her bound hands into the sand, she hauled herself forward, leaving a trail of dark crimson stains in her wake. When she reached the dappled shade of a skeletal palm tree a few metres away she flopped onto her side, her whole body throbbing with pain. Her pale skin had burnt a fierce shade of scarlet in the merciless sun; she had never endured such physical pain in her life. She raised her head briefly, and nearly fainted at the sight that greeted her eyes. Mobs of large sharks haunted the shallows near her little island, their huge dark shapes cruising silently through the aquamarine water. It was only then that she noticed the copious amounts of her blood trickling away from the sand towards the shoreline, where the sharks lay in wait. She shuddered, her tongue dashing out to moisten her dry, parched lips. They promptly split in several places, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. Her head reeled, a solitary tear leaking down her cheek, her heart heavy with the knowledge of her desperate situation. A painful lump of despair rose in her throat . If only her Pa hadn't let her go .  
  
"I'm sorry, Gwennie . I really am." Her father sank into his tattered armchair, one thick-fingered hand spearing through his grizzly, unkempt gray hair.  
  
"I just dunna hav' the money, love. I canna do nothin' about it." His bloodshot, watery blue eyes pleaded with her, the bottle of gin trembling in his aging hands.  
  
"Pa, you canna give me to 'em! Dunna you love me, Pa?" She flung herself at his feet, her knees cracking sharply on the stone floor of the ramshackle hut.  
  
"Tis outta my hands, lass. They'll kill ye and me if I dunna do somethin' ." He patted her long, glossy tresses of dark hair gently, his wizened features rumpling as he sniffed heavily and dragged his sleeve across his stubby nose.  
  
"Pa, pa ." She sobbed, hanging onto his stained and ripped navy trousers. She wanted to hate the man she was so desperately clinging on to, to hate him with all her might. But she couldn't. He was her Pa. She leaned her forehead against the smelly material, trying to process what her father had just told her.  
  
A debt, he had said, a big debt .  
  
One night, during one of his drunken revels, he had engaged himself in a game of cards with a rather motley, dangerous bunch in a rambling wayside shack near the harbour. Under the feeble light of a lantern he had lost his house, all his money and a little more than he "suppos'd" he had. His card partners wanted payment. Immediately.  
  
"I ha' nothin' else to give 'em, me sweet darlin," he had stuttered when confronted with her reaction, his round face sunken and pale.  
  
"They're pirates, lass . they'll take everythin' from a man, even his only daugh'er."  
  
"But you agreed to it!" She had shrieked, her tiny hands clenched into fists, a mountain of fury bubbling up inside her.  
  
"Bet'er than havin' the both of us killed, ain't it?" His thick Irish brogue stumbled, his thin shoulders sagging under the weight of his decision.  
  
She had opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. She pitied him, really. Things had not been easy for him when her mother died. She had passed away giving birth to Gwendolyn's younger brother, Myles, who later died a few days afterwards due to 'complications'. It was at that moment, that her dear Pa had decided that "God ha' turn'd his back on me 'n you, Gwennie." And he had proceeded to earn himself an early grave by drinking and gambling with all they owned. Their once proud house lay in virtual ruins, and now belonged to a band those highwaymen of the seas - those pirates. She had watched the painful process, watched her father change from the respected captain of the merchant vessel The Shamrock Isle to a slovenly drunk, who fritted away what little money Gwendolyn brought home on booze. Gwendolyn had managed to get a job as a seamstress in town, but earned precious few coins for her pains. And what she did bring home, of course, disappeared once she set it on the table, and she took to keeping for herself a set amount for food and other necessities. Despite her best efforts, gentle coaxing, and tender care, her father had continued his downward spiral into the depths of the bleak, hazy depression that only alcoholics can recognize. And now they were going to take her away .  
  
That night had been a sleepless one for Gwendolyn. She had lain awake, staring out her window into the chilly, moonless night beyond. At first, she had a difficult time convincing herself the whole situation was real. She hoped that she was in some horrid nightmare, and that with a quick pinch of her arm, she would soon awake. She quickly discovered this was not the case, and turned to thoughts of her immediate future. Pirates, he had said. She had heard terrible tales of those corrupt sailors of the world's oceans, who pillaged, plundered and generally wreaked their havoc upon unsuspecting ships in the endless search for treasure. She shuddered, cold fear trickling into her heart. How would she, a woman, cope out on the open sea in the company of such scoundrels? It didn't bare thinking about, how could she possibly escape? She could run away, but then they would certainly kill her Pa! She wrung her hands together, tears of self-pity running down her pale face. Once they had her, they probably would not let her go, and she could not escape once they were at sea! Maybe, maybe . Maybe she could wait till they docked next, and try to escape then! Yet, they could keep her tied up, or not let her off the ship. Her restless mind kept at its fruitless occupation for hours, and when the first faintly pink streaks of dawn touched the horizon, she was rudely pulled from her morbid thoughts.  
  
"We've come to collect, O'Reilly!" A deep, thickly accented voice had boomed.  
  
Hearing the disjointed babble of voices downstairs, Gwendolyn had leaped out of bed and pressed herself against the wall, her chest heaving gently, her pulse racing deliriously through her veins.  
  
"Where she be?" That slick, disturbing voice again. A finger of ice trailed down her spine, causing her to shiver forcefully.  
  
She had heard her father's unintelligible response and clung to the wall, her head spinning. They wouldn't hurt him, would they? Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs and towards her room. Gwendolyn had shut her eyes, silently willing them all to go away and leave her and her Pa alone. The carved oak door of her room slammed open, and a dark-skinned man strolled in. He was well over 6 feet tall, wearing black leather pants and a loose red shirt, his inky hair obscured from view by a dark felt hat set on a jaunty angle atop his head. He sighted her rigid body and grinned roguishly, revealing a few gold teeth that matched the earring that pierced his right lobe.  
  
"Captain Carlos Hernandez of The Marauder, my beautiful senorita." He drawled, his dark brown eyes glinting mischievously as he gave a courtly bow.  
  
"Gwendolyn O'Reilly" she replied jerkily, her breath hitching in her lungs.  
  
"Of course ye are, ya stupid wench. Now get a few things together, ye leavin'!"  
  
He relegated himself to the writing desk in the corner, tracing her every move with his glittering, spiteful gaze.  
  
"Hurry up!" He snapped, tapping his boot-clad feet impatiently on the floor.  
  
Gwendolyn tossed the bare necessities into her suitcase and stood trembling before him, quailing under his heartless expression.  
  
"Move along then!" He growled, shoving her into the hallway and steering her roughly out onto the landing and down the stairs.  
  
"Gwennie, darlin'!" a weak voice had cried out from the parlour.  
  
"Pa!" She screeched in alarm, turning about and making for the sound of her father's voice. But Captain Hernandez, who held her upper arm in a grip of iron, halted Gwendolyn in her tracks.  
  
"Let me GO!" She had railed, her porcelain hued hands stretching out in the direction of her father's voice.  
  
"Either ye come quietly with me, lassie, or yeh Pa gets it." He growled in reply, striking his long index finger across his neck in a manner that left no doubt in her mind as to what he would do to her Pa if she did not obey.  
  
"Le's get goin', yeh scurvy cur! To The Marauder!" He bellowed the instructions over his shoulder, and a number of shadowy figures fell into line behind their Captain.  
  
Gwendolyn rolled over in her semi-conscious state, her soft green eyes glassy with unshed tears. Her fingers curled uselessly in the sand, a strangled cry escaping her lips:  
  
"Pa ."  
  
~*~  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow frowned, his brown eyes narrowing as he surveyed the surrounding waters with increasing skepticism and doubt.  
  
"There be no wreck 'round these parts," he said, addressing the black woman by his side.  
  
"Nay, but why all the sharks?" Ana Maria replied, her arms draped casually over the railing, telescope dangling from one hand.  
  
Their musings were interrupted by a sharp squawk.  
  
"Man overboard! Man overboard!" Mr Cotton's parrot swooped overhead and began to descend, perching himself on the wheel and ruffling his feathers with an air of great importance.  
  
"Get, yeh pesky bird," Jack snarled, swiping one ringed finger in the parrot's direction. It shrilled indignantly and returned to its master's shoulder.  
  
"Jack!" cried Mr Gibbs, his graying head bobbing towards his Captain as he clambered up the stairs, his round face pink with exertion.  
  
"What's tha' ma'er, ye ol' scallywag?" Jack asked, his expression one of mild interest at the flustered state of one of the most trusted members of his crew, if that could ever be said of any pirate.  
  
"There IS a man overboard, sir! On tha' beach, and he ain't well, Cap'n, there be an awful lot of blood spilled." He said all this very fast, sweat popping out on his bright red brow.  
  
"Give tha' 'ere!" Jack demanded, snatching the telescope from Ana Maria's hand.  
  
Sure enough, Jack sighted a body on the beach, and followed the trail of blood to the teaming sharks in the shallows.  
  
"Well, tha' cer'ainly explains a great deal," he said casually, handing the telescope back to Ana Maria.  
  
"Cap'n, I saw 'im move, I did, should we pick 'im up, sir?" Mr Gibbs said insistently, his temples wrinkled with concern.  
  
Jack heaved a sigh tipped his hat up, rubbing his forehead irritably. The last thing he needed was another mouth to feed and a sickly corpse boarding his ship. But he was not a man free of compassion, so he turned to his First Mate, his dark eyebrows knitting together thoughtfully.  
  
"What say ye, Ana Maria?"  
  
The young woman gazed at the mound of raw, pink flesh flung so hopelessly out beneath the scant cover palm trees and turned to her Captain, her chocolate eyes shining with pity.  
  
"Aye, we could bring him aboard."  
  
Jack spun the wheel, the Pearl moaning and shuddering in protest as he sailed her as close to the reef as he dared. He watched Ana Maria load some sheets and blankets into one the lifeboats, helping Mr Gibbs in and then clambering aboard herself. He followed their progress with the telescope as they rowed towards the shore, his gaze anxious as they negotiated around the pack of sharks still swarming around the area.  
  
If had been with them as they hiked ashore, Jack would have heard Ana Maria's gasp of surprise as she rolled the unconscious man over. It was no man - but a very naked, badly injured woman.  
  
"Mr Gibbs," she murmured, her hands trembling. "Pass me tha' there blanket."  
  
Author's Note: This is just a quick chapter I got out in a day, so sorry if it isn't that long or that fantastic. I don't think anyone is actually reading this anyway, darn it. Please read and review, it certainly would be easier for me to keep updating if I had a few reviews . I'm not begging, really . Just crawling, lol! 


	3. Two Worlds Collide

Author's Note: Hugs, chocolate, and *Captain* Jack Sparrow paraphernalia for all three of my reviewers! I was going to make this chapter a lot longer, but I arrived at this irresistible cliffhanger, and I thought, why not? As always, read and review, constructive criticism is most welcome. ^_^ Enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: I own Gwendolyn, her Pa, Captain Hernandez, The Marauder and the plot line, nothing else. The rest belongs to Disney.  
  
Chapter Three  
  
In her delirium, Gwendolyn felt Anamaria's gentle ministrations to her burnt flesh and screeched in pain, her manacled hands reached out blindly, striking at her invisible adversary.  
  
"Peace, ye be in the company o' friends, settle now." Anamaria said softly, sponging the frightened creature's forehead with a water-soaked rag. Gwendolyn relaxed at these reassurances as she felt the blissful sensation of water running over her, her hazy brain barely registering one detail of her rescuers. Everything was going to be all right.  
  
Mr Gibbs hovered over Anamaria's shoulder, his dark eyes darting nervously to the injured girl and back again. He mutters inaudibly to himself "Tis bad luck to have a woman on board."  
  
"What ye be waitin' for, ya useless twit? Help me get 'er to the boat!" Anamaria carefully maneuvered the feeble woman onto a ragged blanket, and between her self and Mr Gibbs, they cautiously carried her to the lifeboat that sat firmly wedged in the sandy shoreline.  
  
Easing a few more sheets between the unfortunate wretch and the rough floorboards of their little vessel, Ana Maria gave Mr Gibbs the signal to start rowing back to The Black Pearl.  
  
The lulling and rolling of the Caribbean sea rocked Gwendolyn into a deep, dreamless slumber, from which Anamaria had not the heart to wake her.  
  
~*~  
  
Jack peered under the mass of blankets and sheets, his nose wrinkled in distaste.  
  
"A woman, bound up, ye say?" Anamaria nodded silently in affirmation. After getting her aboard the Pearl, they had stowed the burnt, bleeding lass below deck, where the air was considerably cooler and her crimson skin would be able to heal unmolested. A candle flickered eerily on the nearby table top, illuminating the only part of Gwendolyn not hidden by a mountain of fabric; her face.  
  
What had been almost translucent white skin was now plagued with blisters and scratches, one of her eyes was slightly blackened with bruising and her lips were split, the cuts dribbling rivulets of scarlet that ran and pooled onto her chin.  
  
Jack let out a low whistle, his hands twitching erratically in front of him as if he didn't know exactly what to do with himself.  
  
"Cap'n, when we found 'er, she 'ad a strange mark on 'er shoulda, she did." Anamaria tentatively reached out and rolled Gwendolyn over, allowing Jack to view the freshly bleeding wound. It lay embedded well into her flesh, the unmistakable letters: "CH - M". Beneath the 'M' was a small, crudely carved skull and cross bones.  
  
Under his tanned, rugged complexion, Captain Jack Sparrow blanched, his features ashen as he drew up a rickety chair and examined the wound with as much care as he could muster. His fingers flitted over the letters and symbols, his lips drawing into a thin line. After a heavy silence, he declared  
  
"Well, mates, it seems we got ourselves a murderin' wench."  
  
~*~  
  
Someone was touching her, they shouldn't have been. She squirmed away, her entire body felt like it was fire, as if her skin was melting away from her bones. She tried to scream, but no sound came out, only a kind of choked gag. Her mind descended into panic mode, a floodgate of memories pouring down upon her befuddled senses. She could still feel his hands on her, no! Not again, never again!  
  
"Come on, plitty lady. I won' bite ye, much!" The dark, burly man advanced towards her, chubby fingers grasping at the air in inches from Gwendolyn, his piggy eyes drinking in her appearance with unabashed lust.  
  
"No! Get away!" She backed up uncertainly against the wall, every inch of her being trembling in fear. Her free hand groped around on the table to her right for something, anything. It found the fork she had used minutes before at her evening meal, the small metal implement shimmering innocently in the semi-darkness. The vague outlines of furniture could be made out in the suffocating lack of light, but what dominated her vision was the slurring, stumbling form of the repulsive pirate that was quickly closing the space between them.  
  
"Get out! I'll tell the Captain!" It was only her third night on The Marauder, and Gwendolyn had somehow managed to keep her honour intact by locking herself in her room, not even admitting food or water, and living off the small bottle of alcohol presented to her by Hernandez himself when she first boarded. But starvation and thirst had driven her to allow herself to be exposed to the likes of Hernandez and his crew, and the result stood before her. Gwendolyn's threat to inform his master of his dalliances drew from the bumbling, vile man, a deep, booming laugh.  
  
"The Cap'n 'd only be mad tha' he didn't get ye firs' 'imself!" With that he pinned her against the wall with his massive bulk, panting against her neck, his eyes glazed. The foul smell of alcohol greeted her nostrils, and Gwendolyn fought to throw him off, but it was no use, he was simply too heavy. His hands fumbled about her skirts and bodice, leaving streaks of grease and dirt on the thin, worn fabric. Battling against the waves of sickening nausea and panic that threatened to engulf her, she raised her right hand, the fork clutched tightly within her grasp, her knuckles white against her skin. She brought it down with all her might into his back, sinking the prongs deep into his body as his mouth slobbered and bit clumsily at her throat.  
  
"You BITCH!" He roared, stumbling backwards in surprise as blood spurted from the wound and poured down his shirt, leaking onto the scuffed floorboards. He groped uselessly at the protruding bit of metal, and when he found his efforts less than fruitful, he turned his pain-crazed attention back on Gwendolyn. He made a charge at her, his right fist catching her in the face as she dodged the blow a split-second too late. She flung herself against the table, noticing the way the light of the guttering candle reflected against the plain, silver handle of the dagger that dangled temptingly from her assailant's leather belt. She ducked under another forceful swing and wrenched the weapon free, brandishing it threateningly in front of her. He ran at her again, seemingly oblivious the fact that she was armed, due to his drunken and pain-driven state.  
  
Drawing a sharp breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and drove the dagger into his chest as hard as she dared. He stumbled forward, his eyes bulging unnaturally from his head. He opened his mouth and it fell slack, bubbles of blood issuing forth, spraying Gwendolyn in litres of the life force that poured from his chest and mouth. He stumbled forward and fell against Gwendolyn, winding her in the process. She dragged the filthy dagger from his body, her dress rapidly soaking in his blood.  
  
The door to her quarters crashed open, and an irate Hernandez stormed inside.  
  
"What be goin' on, 'ere?!" He hollered, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a ferocious scowl.  
  
His jaw dropped open at the sight of Gwendolyn, sprawled against the wall, holding a dagger and coated in the blood of one of his crew that fastening her in place with his dead weight. As he adjusted himself to the shocking sight, he let out a single sentence before backhanding her into oblivion.  
  
"Say goodnight, my little mujerzuela, it may be the last time you get the chance."  
  
~*~  
  
"Murderin'?" Mr Gibbs whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of incredulity and confusion.  
  
"Aye, murderin'." Jack nodded solemnly, his coffee-hued eyes darkening with trepidation.  
  
"How ye be tellin' tha', Cap'n?" Asked Anamaria, gazing at the shrunken, vulnerable figure in the bed as if she could not believe that such a soul was capable of murder.  
  
"This," Jack gesticulated emphatically toward the strange symbols on her back "Be the markins' made by Cap'n Hernandez of The Marau'er. Means she killed a member of 'is crew."  
  
He continued to trace the raw lines lightly with his fingertips, as if fascinated.  
  
"The C and H stand for Hernandez's name, so they know it was 'im who done it, if tha' body was eva' found." He spat the last few words out with some bitterness, before continuing on "the M be standin' for murder'r, and the skull 'n crossbones be tellin' that twas a pirate she kill'd."  
  
A dead, unmoving silence settled over the trio, all eyes focused on the slow rise and fall of the mound of sheets in front of them.  
  
"Anamaria," Jack whispered quietly, his gaze never moving from Gwendolyn's face. "See that this here lass gets the proper care that she'll be needin'. She'll want her strength to answer a few questions when she comes to, savvy?"  
  
Anamaria nodded, "Aye, Cap'n."  
  
~*~  
  
Cold! Something cold, wet and slippery was being rubbed on her face. She moaned as her eyelids fluttered open. Blurry. Everything was out of focus, dark shapes swam in her line of vision. She struggled to lever herself onto one elbow, but was pushed roughly down back onto the bed. Bed? Her cloudy brain began to clear somewhat, and she remembered being spoken to, being lifted, and then, blackness.  
  
"Where am I?" She croaked, her tongue thick and cumbersome in her mouth.  
  
"Aboard The Black Pearl." Anamaria whispered, administering more ointment to Gwendolyn's gradually healing face.  
  
It was only then that Gwendolyn took in the rank odour of rum and the gentle, soothing rocking of the entire place. A ship? That would clarify a fair bit. She turned her attention to her companion, a young black woman in man's attire, who was smoothing a non-descript cream onto Gwendolyn's pink and peeling skin.  
  
"I'm Anamaria, First Mate on the Pearl." She said, noticing Gwendolyn's intent gaze.  
  
"We found ye on the beach, a sorry sight ye were, too. Ye cuts and things seem to be healin' jus' fine, but yeh skin is takin a mite longer than we excepted." She explained, pulling the sheets back to examine Gwendolyn's wrists. Gwendolyn blushed at her nakedness, but Anamaria seemed to think nothing of it.  
  
"How did you manage to remove my irons?" She enquired; wincing as Anamaria changed the dressing on her surprisingly mended wrists.  
  
"Dunno, the Cap'n saw to them bein' taken off." Anamaria passed Gwendolyn a small wooden cup full of water, which Gwendolyn drank greedily, discovering her ravishing thirst as soon as the cool liquid touched her lips.  
  
"Steady on," Anamaria said, watching the water splash down Gwendolyn's sheets.  
  
"There be plen'y more where tha' came from." She paused, her face settling into a solemn expression.  
  
"The Cap'n 'll be wantin' to see ye, now that yeh awake." Anamaria's voice took on a kind of serious, flat tone that did alarming things to Gwendolyn's sense. Clearly, whoever the Captain was, he did not bear good tidings for her or her future. As if reading her thoughts, Anamaria patted Gwendolyn's hand comfortingly.  
  
"Don't worry, the Cap'n be a fair man, even to the likes of yeself." With that, Anamria turned and disappeared up a flight of creaky stairs and out of sight.  
  
Gwendolyn relaxed against her thin pillow, trying to sort through the jumble of questions that jostled for position in her head. For the likes of herself? What had Anamaria meant by that? Her slim fingers toyed idly with her hair, which had been brushed, or so it seemed, and tamed into a plait that was secured with a scruffy bit of rag. She heard the stairs groan under the weight of staggering footsteps and was reminded of the ominous meeting with the Captain. Gwendolyn took her breath in sharply, trying to shrink away into the dark recesses of her bed, the sheet pulled up to her chin.  
  
Captain Jack Sparrow swaggered in, a bottle of clear amber liquid dangling from one hand as he weaved his way over to the chair that Anamaria had just vacated. Plopping into it with an air of drunken grace, he leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees. He peered at her intently, his head cocked to one side in a curious fashion. One blackened, ring-ridden hand reached into the inky darkness and tapped her cautiously on the shoulder.  
  
"Lass?" His whisper was soft, almost husky. It sent a delightful shiver racing up Gwendolyn's spine.  
  
"Yes?" She squeaked, her sheet ascending to cover her nose as well, her heart palpitating in her chest.  
  
"Ye can't be that bad, luv, come into the light where I can see ye."  
  
Gwendolyn peeped out from behind the sheet and edged into the warm glow of the candle that rested on a nearby table. A blush tinted her already pink cheeks; she was acutely aware of the fact that the sheet she clutched was the only barrier between them.  
  
He grinned roguishly, a few gold teeth glinting in the wavering light.  
  
"Tis no reason to be modest, lass, I made sure you were rid of these," he jangled her broken manacles in front of her, a merry spark shining in his dark eyes.  
  
"And I must say, luv, that despite yer injuries, I was quite impressed with what I saw." He winked suggestively, causing all colour to drain from her face.  
  
"You scoundrel!" She spluttered, her nails biting into her palm as she painfully tightened her grip on her sheet.  
  
"I'm a pirate, luv, would ye expect anythin' less?" He reached across, prying one of her hands loose, and shook it gently, but firmly.  
  
"Captain Jack Sparrow, luv, and this 'ere," he waved his free hand expressively about "is me pride 'n' joy, The Black Pearl."  
  
But Gwendolyn had stopped listening, a red haze impeding her vision. A pirate, he said. No, no, no! She jerked her small hand free from his and retreated back into the darkness, hissing and spitting like a frightened cat.  
  
"Keep away from me!" She screeched, her eyes quickly assessing the room for appropriate routes of escape.  
  
"Got a problem with pirates, luv?" He asked, his tone a little amused. "Or is it jus' me ye don't like?"  
  
"Pirates!" She spat, her knees turning to jelly. The only way out was past him, and there was no way she could make it in her current condition.  
  
"Well, luv, before I commen' on tha', what be yeh name?"  
  
"Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn O'Reilly." She started to tremble at the despondency of the situation. If this Jack Sparrow was anything like Hernandez, she was in serious trouble. Her vocal chords tightened, she blinked time and time again to keep the wanton tears at bay, but it was no use. They rolled silently down her cheeks, and her chest felt as if it was about to explode from holding in the agonizing sobs that threatened to wrack her slight frame.  
  
His expression quickly changed from amusement to alarm as he observed her crying and hiccupping, knowing it was only a matter of time before she started wailing like a banshee. Damn females, crying could almost be considered blackmail. His hands jittered nervously in his lap, and he attempted a crooked grin.  
  
"There, there, luv. No need to be doin' tha'." He patted her shoulder awkwardly, his face contorted in the same appearance as one might take when petting a particularly savage and unpredictably violent animal.  
  
"D-d-don't TOUCH me!" Gwendolyn rounded on him, her face bright red and shining with anger as she curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the bed and continued to give her sorrow and self-pity free reign over her.  
  
Jack jumped back, nearly toppling off his chair. What in the hell did this wench think she was playing at? He certainly hadn't met any hardened murderers who sobbed at the mention of piracy. He took a swig of his rum, feeling the familiar, almost comforting burn as the tawny liquid slid down his throat. Her irons lay forgotten on the floor, and Jack was drawn back to into the train of thought that had rendered him sleepless the night before. The Legend of Konrad's Cavern. He picked up the discarded heaps of metal and ran his fingers over the intricate carvings, the drunken tales of pirates past their time echoing in his ears. A magnificent trove of jealously hoarded treasure, they had said. The fading light of the candle bounced off and reflected on the well-worn metal, brightly illuminating the carefully carved images. The large skull and cross bones, the Indian's head to the left on the forehead, the large "K" carved between the eyes, and a palm tree to the right. Above it all, smashing itself into the top of the skull was a dagger, running three rivulets of blood between the symbols below it. Beneath the lot, the word 'Pirate' was inscribed. Jack's brooding gaze travelled to the girl, what did she say her name was? Wendy? No, it started with a G, strange name it was, and long. Guinness, Ginny, Glenydon . Gwendolyn! That was it, some lady-like, fancy name. She was still shaking and crying on her bed. Could she have something to do with it? Jack peered a little closer at the irons, caressing them as tenderly as if he was holding a child. Suddenly, it caught his eye. A name, etched on the inside of one of the bands, he hadn't noticed that last night. Jack's breath all but stopped in his throat as he stared disbelievingly at it, his eyes nearly popping from his head at the familiarity of the letters. Letters that flowed into words, words that glared up at him. He would definitely be needin' some more rum.  
  
Author's Note: Review, review, review, the review button is right there, right there! Click on it, send me a lovely, lengthy review, you know you want to! ^_^ - Ms Critique. 


	4. My Most Sincere Apology

To my tiny legion of fans (I have fans, w00t!),  
  
Thank you all for your marvelously kind reviews, I'm sorry I haven't been able to update lately. It's tragic. It really is. I have so much schoolwork since the term started again, and right now I'm plowing through the mother load of assignments. Thank goodness it'll all be over in a few weeks and I'll have eight WHOLE weeks in which to finish my story unhindered by the evils of the educational system. In other news, I've been told I should do a Masters degree in creative writing by the head of the Humanities department at my school, yay! I'm stoked! To appease all you wonderful people, I'll just post random bits of my work for you to read that unfortunately are not related to POTC . Just as a bit of a distraction until I can get around to finishing Chapter Four.  
  
Huggles to all! Missy (aka Ms Critique) ^_^  
  
PS: I turn 17 in November, please give me lots of lovely reviews as presents! There is one short story in this post.  
  
Compensation piece: A short story that I finished a few days ago, set during the Third Crusade (1191) in the Christian stronghold of Acre.  
  
Onward Christian Soldier  
  
"Too long!" Richard roared, slamming his palm down violently against the bare wooden table in front of him.  
  
A murmur of assent rose from the group of men seated about him. Only one did not vocalize his opinion.  
  
Sir Thomas Godfrey tilted back in his chair, his long fingers steepled together and leaning lightly against his lips, his brow creased with thought. The negotiations of the return of the Holy Cross to the Christians and the delay on the part of the Saracen leader Saladin had taken its toll on Moslem-Christian relations. Richard was growing restless as the third crusade wore on. Throughout the city, rumours were spreading like wild fire that the English king feared to do so much as send an envoy, should he incense Saladin into withdrawing from the settlement altogether. Other street-talk spouted hope that the Holy Cross had indeed been spotted within the ranks of the Moslem army. But, mused Thomas, they all had come to nothing, all had been mere froth with no substance. Richard the Lion heart spoke again, his voice ringing with unquestionable authority that would surely dispel such thoughts from the minds of his men.  
  
"We must take action against the unbelievers! For too great a time have they kept us waiting for what they promised!"  
  
The noise level in the room increased, as each man debated with his neighbour the possible 'action' that their king spoke of so surely. Richard's voice shook with sincerity; his fair English complexion was patched with varying shades of crimson.  
  
"Under no circumstance can we show ourselves susceptible to Saladin's meaningless trinkets and extravagant words! Therefore, we must behead all the prisoners he was to regain, for if he shall not honour his end of the agreement, than neither shall we!"  
  
A wave of deafening chatter crashed through the room, men's voices boomed like the firing of canons as each expressed his opinion on the King's declaration. There was much nodding and mutterings of general agreement, but something balked in the mind of Thomas Godfrey. Slaughter, mass slaughter. There were roughly two thousand seven hundred Moslem prisoners that were to be exchanged with Saladin, and according to Richard, all were condemned to death. Their souls would be damned to the fires of hell for all eternity. A wrinkle formed in the center of Thomas' forehead, an outward indication of his inner turmoil.  
  
"Soldiers of God!" Richard's voice calmed the roiling ocean of heated speech, and silence fell over the assembly. He stood at the head of the table, his hands planted firmly on either edge. He emanated an aura of sheer supremacy; his strong frame seemingly swelled and filled one's vision. A plain circlet of gold gleamed proudly against his light hair, marking him a ruler of the uppermost order. Thomas saw the English king at the height of his power, but in his opinion, that immaculate gold crown had just been irrevocably tarnished. Massacre! Carnage! Death! Those poisonous words dripped and oozed through his consciousness, causing Richard to shrink to the detestable stature of a snarling, vengeful barbarian. In his mind's eye, Thomas watched the stately crown blacken and shrivel, saw Richard's gaze narrow, recoiled in disgust as his king's stained teeth gnashed menacingly whilst he bellowed out his instructions.  
  
"Four days from now, at midday, you are all to take a contingent of twenty of your best men to assist in the crushing of the unbelievers outside the city gates. Let this be a lesson to Saladin and his followers, to all Moslems, that the one and only Christian God rules over the Holy Land!"  
  
This met with a rousing cheer from the rest of the military elite present, but elicited a shudder from Thomas. He allowed himself a fleeting glance at his comrades, and what he saw temporarily stopped his heart and churned his gut. All present congregated around Richard, offering their congratulations to the king on his resolve. Bile rose in Thomas's throat, and his cheeks drained of what little colour still remained. His once respectable fellows stood about, committing themselves to idle chatter that centered on the imminent mass murder that would 'surely teach those Turks a lesson'. Imagine it! They talked of the lives of thousands of men like they were mere flies! His vision blurred, and for the first time, Thomas felt truly alienated from this tight-knit group that had taught him the fundamental rules of war. Could they not see? Had they not his eyes? He pressed his forehead to the wall and inhaled deeply, his shaky breath rattling in his lungs. The room began to close in on him, slowly encroaching on his quaking figure, choking off the air. He had to get out, now!  
  
Thomas managed to escape the lavish building unmolested in the wake of Richard's hideous declaration. He plodded wearily upstairs towards his own quarters and seated himself in a rickety wooden chair by the window, the ancient piece of furniture groaning heavily under his weight. Streaks of pink, orange and gold crept over the horizon, creating a breathtaking canvas of unparalleled beauty that was herald of the sun's retreat. Thomas rubbed his temples; he found them suddenly tense and tight with an unbearable pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against the barrage of gore- ridden images that threatened to overcome him completely. Visions of men falling, screaming, blood gushing in rivers, endless, putrid rivers that soiled the glimmering sand. Flies swarmed about their bloated bodies, their lifeless faces frozen in expressions of everlasting horror. Panicked cries for help tore at his memory, too much death, far too much death, far too much death . Why take life so senselessly, then, as Richard had proposed? Surely these men, albeit unbelievers, had anxious loved ones waiting? Was he, as a lad, not taught to show mercy on those less fortunate in his Sunday lessons? Good Lord in heaven, was he not told that God loved all men? He had joined the Crusades to seek fulfillment and reclaim for the Christian faith what was rightfully theirs, but if the constant war, the continual death, had shown him anything at all, it was the value of life. And here was Richard, his king, undermining the value of the lives of two thousand seven hundred Moslem men! He could not, he would not destroy life in such a manner! A moan of despair ripped free from his throat and weariness inundated his aching bones. Richard was disastrously misguided in his decision! But a poignant issue still remained: What was to be done?  
  
His men! Perhaps he could persuade them not to take part? But if what he had seen at the meeting that evening was any indication . dear God! His hands bunched into tense fists in exasperation; how thwarted he was! Frustration boiled his blood and fuelled his temper. He had never felt so thoroughly torn in his entire life! Flooded with despair, he speared a hand through his unkempt, dirty blonde hair and stared listlessly at his dust- coated feet. His swimming, muddled head lightened and spun giddily, as a new and daunting insight came into focus. A quick drop and a short stop. The slang phrase rung and reverberated in his head. A quick drop and a short stop . That was what awaited those who refused to obey orders, especially those given directly by King Richard himself. Thomas snorted in disgust. Richard, king of all England. Leader of the Third Crusade. Liberator of the Holy Land. The shallow valleys of craggy skin around his eyes crinkled and a throaty, bitter laugh wracked his frame. Such inconsistency! Richard spoke of freeing what was linked to eternal life, yet he did so by slaying countless thousands on a whim! Surely he held the Bible in one hand and a sharpened dagger in the other! The fit of laughter subsided, and Thomas shied away from the decision that pressed insistently on his mind. What was to be done? He would not force his men to follow his example, he would not hold them back . not when it would result in their death. But then how, by God, how?  
  
Such thoughts needled at his mind for hours, and a surprisingly cool desert breeze fluttered the tattered curtains of his lodgings before he came to his conclusion. He would not take his men to those heaving sand dunes that lay slithering and shifting about ominously before the city gates. He would try to convince them of the contradictions inherent within their orders, but it would ultimately rest with them whether or not they heeded his words. He would stop just within the walls of Acre; it would be their own option as to the course of action they took. He was again reminded of the consequences he faced for blatant disobedience, but he preferred a collar of splintering rope to the rejection of God on judgment day. His resolve strengthened as he gazed up at the infinite expanse of thousands of tiny, sparkling lights that dotted the heavens, and prayed that his decision was just in the eyes of God. Bathed in the luminescence of the watery beams of moonlight, Acre lay flung out before him like an ethereal kingdom of childhood fantasy. It baffled Thomas that such evils and brutalities could take place amidst such tranquil beauty. His last sleep-free thought and desperate hope lay with the unbelievers, and it was his deepest desire that by some miracle their blood would not stain the sands of Acre when the sun reached its zenith in four days time.  
  
~*~  
  
Horses snorted impatiently, their shod hooves pawing at the loose sand beneath them as they jostled about, awaiting the familiar build-up of nervous excitement. The merciless noonday sun pounded down upon the armored group of men and beasts, sweat glistened and slid down dappled flanks, dripping into the billowing desert abyss at their feet. Grains of sand blasted into the helmets of the Crusaders, and curses carried on the wind out onto the dune-dotted plane beyond the city's formidable fortifications. It was here that the captives stood, shackled tightly together. A constant stream of unintelligible, optimistic, babbling voices issued forth, their owners straining to catch a glimpse of the much-anticipated arrival of Saladin's army, and their subsequent salvation.  
  
Sir Thomas Godfrey reined in his mount, the polished metal of his armor gleaming brilliantly in the dazzling sunlight.  
  
"Men!" He cried, his commanding tone filled with the heavy knowledge of his message.  
  
"The matter of which I spoke to you of earlier this morning still holds. You may stand true to your faith, and not take up your sword to needlessly take the lives of these unbelievers. You may show mercy, and make your peace with the Lord your God in heaven. Or you may follow your king, Richard, and cut down these prisoners where they stand. The choice is yours. Take it as you will."  
  
Thomas shielded his eyes from the intense sun with his hand, and heard the devastating, lone trumpet blast that signaled the charge. The cruel finality echoed ominously over the dunes, indicative of the crushing blow Richard was about to deal his Moslem counterpart. There was a most brief moment in time, suspended in uncertainty, where all lay still for Thomas's company of twenty. That moment was swiftly shattered. Without warning, all horses but one were wrenched decisively into motion, startled whinnies scratching at the ears as the painted animals plunged towards the mass of humanity beyond the bounds of Acre's black, looming gates.  
  
~*~  
  
The Moslem scout mounted the crest of the last dune in his path, the loose ribbons of his turban whipping sharply behind him in the light breeze. His dark eyes widened in unabashed horror as he tried to take in the spread of carnage that suddenly overwhelmed his vision.  
  
Desperate, strangled cries filled his ears; he could do naught but helplessly watch the diamond-bright figures of the Crusaders darting in and out of the dull mass of his countrymen like sleek silver fish. Wavering, burbling pleas for mercy went unanswered, and the towering metal giants continued their blind, deadly rampage amongst the defenseless captives. The unsteady figures of the slain stumbled and plowed into the ground, their own blood pooling, trickling, gurgling in thick streams of rancid pollution. The bodies fell over three deep and the contaminated river of blood flooded the dunes, creating a grotesque oasis of shimmering scarlet liquid. The piercing whistles of swords rent the heavy midday atmosphere, the sickening connection of steel on flesh chilling the young man to the bone. Offering a quivering half-bow to his fallen comrades, he turned his mount back towards camp and made for the safe shelter at break-neck speed, flinging clouds of sand up behind him in his haste.  
  
~*~  
  
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.  
  
He makes me lie down in green pastures,  
  
he leads me beside quiet waters,  
  
he restores my soul .  
  
Richard cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels, regarding the man in front of him with barely leashed loathing.  
  
He guides me in paths of righteousness  
  
for his name's sake.  
  
"So, you admit that you DELIBERATELY disobeyed orders?" The king spoke through gritted teeth, his hands flexing in and out of tightly balled fists.  
  
Even though I walk  
  
through the valley of the shadow of death,  
  
Thomas merely nodded, his blue eyes glazed over and absent.  
  
I will fear no evil,  
  
for you are with me;  
  
Fury bubbled over for the English king, and wrath poured from his mouth in a lion-like scream of rage.  
  
"You are NO CRUSADER! How dare you blaspheme our Saviour in this way?! It's the noose for you, I hope Satan has prepared a place for you in the deepest belly of hell!"  
  
Your rod and your staff,  
  
they comfort me .  
  
~*~  
  
Saladin buried his turbaned head in his hands and gave a groan of anguish. Dark circles rimmed the eyes that observed the shivering wreck of the young soldier that stood before him.  
  
"All of them?" The broken monarch whispered, his aging shoulders slumping under the weight of the news that had just been delivered to him.  
  
"It seems that way." The youth seemed scarcely able to hold himself together. Pale flesh edged his tanned jaw line and a wild, frightened look dwelt in his eyes. His declining condition did not go unnoticed by the Moslem king.  
  
"Richard the Lionhearted has disgraced himself this day," Saladin's troubled gaze travelled to his young companion, pity and compassion etched in every line of his face.  
  
"But I need not tell you that. You may leave." The youth bowed gratefully and scurried away from the depressing confines of his leader's tent.  
  
~*~  
  
Thomas stepped up to the small, elevated platform, his hands bound crudely behind his back. The hint of a scandalous whisper rippled through the crowd, but silence descended as the abrasive loop of rope was lowered ceremoniously over his head.  
  
You prepare a table before me  
  
in the presence of my enemies.  
  
The crier by his side began to read out Thomas's list of offences, which caused an ironic smile to curve upon the lips of the convicted and condemned. He had always imagined, in vivid detail, dying for his faith. But the fearsome spinnings of his imagination had never conjured the scenario of which he was now a vital part. Dust stirred unassisted in the motionless street, the assemblage of soldiers remained eerily quiet.  
  
You anoint my head with oil;  
  
my cup overflows.  
  
"Sir Thomas Godfrey, for these crimes you have committed against the Crown and God, you have been sentenced to hanging by the neck until you are dead."  
  
Surely goodness and love will follow me  
  
all the days of my life,  
  
A drum roll broke the unnatural stillness, and the crier opened his mouth to utter the last earthly words that Thomas would ever hear:  
  
"May God have mercy on your soul."  
  
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD  
  
forever.  
  
A/N: You like? I hope you find it within your hearts to forgive me; I'll try to get Chapter Four up soon, but no guarantees.  
  
Huggles, Missy ^_^  
  
PS: For those who need to hear this: Don't steal any of my personal works used in this post, they are ALL copyrighted. I own them. Stealing is a crime. So don't do it. 


	5. The Plot Thickens

Author's Note: I know I deserve to be hung, strung and quartered. Bad me. I no update for long time. But I beg your forgiveness, I do! *Crawls, grovels*. Please read and review new chapter! This story is just growing with a life all it's own, so pretty please read and review!  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Commodore Norrington folded the missive and heaved a weary sigh, tossing the slip of parchment carelessly onto the polished surface of his lavishly carved oak desk. His dark eyes narrowed, willing the note to wither upon itself and disintegrate into ashes. In the last few months, his career and social standing had spiraled down into a black abyss of destitution. The cause of such a horrid turn of events for him could be pinned on one vocation and one vocation only: that of piracy. He drummed his square- tipped fingernails against the flawlessly varnished tabletop, humiliation brewing violently just beneath his calm exterior.  
  
Pure, black hate inundated Norrington's heart, building within him a chilling resilience that mounted in intensity as he stared at the seemingly innocent piece of parchment he had thoughtlessly discarded. Something so small, so harmless in appearance, had sealed his fate. He didn't need to lift the red, waxy seal once more to read the message articulately penned within the stained paper, those phrases of condemnation had been burned into his mind.  
  
To the Honorouble Commodore Norrington,  
  
It has come to my attention that your skill and vigour in patrolling the waters surrounding Port Royale is severely lacking of late. The unsuccessful attempt to capture pirate ship The Marauder and the near sinking of your own vessel is an unacceptable result for one of your station. With piracy rising again on an unprecedented scale in the Caribbean, I must order the lowering of your rank back down to Captain. A new Commodore will be inducted in Port Royale to supervise your actions. Consider yourself warned, I expect better achievements from you in the future.  
  
Regards, Admiral Geoffrey Stierenhart of The Royal Navy. Her Majesty's Representative in the American Colonies.  
  
The loopy signature that accompanied the note seemed to constrict Norrington's neck like a thick collar of rope. He struggled to regain composure, his nostrils flaring, his knuckles standing out a stark white against the relatively tanned flesh of his hands. The clock by his side tolled the hour, and he knocked it violently to the floor with one sweep of his fist. The splintering crash of glass on timber brought him back to reality, and instilled a bright spark of vengeance in his eye.  
  
Skill, vigour? Indeed! Sunlight filtered through the stained galls windows, casting a warm glow upon the thick, deeply crimson rug that lay flung out across the polished timber floorboards. The four stone walls began to close in on Norrington, their stoic, rough faces looming dangerously above his head. There had to be a way he could salvage his reputation. There simply had to be!  
  
He drew his sword and lowered it onto the desk, his fingers dancing joyfully over the gold filigree. A welcome distraction. The smile that sprung to his lips at the sheer joy of his prized weapon was wiped away when he recalled the stories connected to it. Jack Sparrow. It had taken all his bravado to turn his back on that scum of the sea and paste on a half grimace for the elderly governor. Ever since, the notorious pirate had become increasingly bold. Rumours of his annual secretive trips to Port Royale raged through the town like wild fire, but only a strong attachment to Elizabeth kept him and the rest of Port Royale's naval forces at bay. He ran his finger along the impeccably gleaming steel blade, deep in thought. If only he could capture The Black Pearl! The sharpened metal nicked into the pad of this thumb and he cursed softly. Blood trickled down his hand; his dark gray eyes a roiling ocean of stormy waters. His eyebrows drew together, hooding his brooding gaze that pierced deeper than the weapon in front of him. If he could just catch Sparrow on one of his trips to the Port! Handing over Jack Sparrow and The Black Pearl would surely impress Admiral Steinrenhart enough to re-instate him! A little chat to Will and Elizabeth would certainly reveal the timing of Sparrow's next little visit, or his current location at least. Good thing he did walk away that day, or dear Elizabeth and that metal-whacking imbecile Will Turner would never trust him enough to reveal Jack's whereabouts .  
  
~*~  
  
Gwendolyn huddled in the corner, her knees drawn up tightly against her chest in the most defensive of postures. She cradled her chin with her hands, peering anxiously at the rabid horde of men crowded around the groaning wooden table. Her stomach churned violently, she had no tolerance for the night's activities. She had come so close to being forced.  
  
"C'mon, luv," Jack cooed, stroking the underside of her chin with one finger.  
  
"Open wide . A little Sparrow's come to visit ." He held the spoonful of mashed potatoes to her lips, but she stubbornly pressed them together and shook her head fiercely.  
  
Her eyes flashed a warning and he backed off, slinking backwards and glaring reproachfully at her.  
  
"Stupid wench." He muttered darkly, his fingers weaving together as he cracked each joint in a deliberate attempt to annoy and disgust the obstinate beast who refused to take part in the good, hearty meal that was laid out before them. Tempting aromas wafted from the heavily laden table towards Gwendolyn, and her body betrayed her as it burbled and cramped noisily. Jack was by her side in seconds, hauling her before the men, roughly shoving her into the rickety stool at his side. He leaned his face close to hers, their breath mingling, noses less than an inch apart. Gwendolyn's heart skipped erratically at his nearness.  
  
"Yeh'll eat lass, I'll have none of this foolish abstinence on me ship." He pulled away, gold teeth glinting triumphantly as he watched the obvious shock parade across her face.  
  
"Yeh didn't think I knew big ol' words like tha', did ya, lass?" She shook her head mutely, and he threw his head back and let out a roaring laugh, the strings of beads weaved into his hair clicking mockingly in her ears. A wave of red crept up her neck, fuelling Jack's hilarity further. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, creating grimy streaks down his cheeks. He finally managed to take a hold of himself, but not until he had the entire crew laughing right along with him. Humiliation burned in her cheeks, and not even Anamaria seemed to have any pity for her. Fuming with suppressed rage, she sat silently in her spot, too afraid and embarrassed to move. Jack leered suggestively towards her, an arm slithering casually over her shoulder as he made his request.  
  
"Could ya pass them there 'taetas, luv?" He tipped the bottle of rum clutched in his other hand towards the bowl of mashed potatoes lying a foot or so away. Repulsed by his drunkenness and his lechery, a vindictive idea sprung into her head.  
  
"O' course, Cap'n Sparrow," She drawled, patting his knee gingerly. His now rum-free hand crept excitedly across her waist, and taking the opportunity act, she grabbed the massive bowl of mashed potatoes and hurled it forcefully at his face.  
  
The entire cabin broke out in boisterous howls of laughter as the bowl slid from his face and fell to the floor. Globs of lumpy potato dripped down his beard, his face was almost indistinguishable as his spluttered for air. The thick mask of congealed vegetable was quickly swiped out of his eyes as he glared hatefully at the positively smug woman at his side. She smiled winningly and asked;  
  
"Did you enjoy yeh potato, then, Cap'n?"  
  
A disturbingly confident smirk emerged from the off white pulp that was slathered liberally across the face of the addressed. Exposed, stained teeth bespoke a fate worse than death.  
  
"Very much, lass, but I'd rather have you warmin' me bed any night, or day, if yeh prefer."  
  
Piercing whistles of encouragement echoed throughout the cabin, the greasy faces of the crew leering at her in the liberal lamplight.  
  
Gwendolyn whole-heartedly wished that she could vanish into thin air. The victorious, kohl-lined eyes of Jack Sparrow gleamed merrily back at her despotic glare. He leaned in close once more, his breath teasing her ear as he whispered softly;  
  
"I always win, luv. Always."  
  
"Never!" She spat, her hands clenching in and out of fists, her back ramrod straight. She stood up, her nose pointing heavenward as she stomped to the corner of the room and sat down with a huff amongst the crates of foodstuffs. Jack rolled his own eyes in the direction of the ceiling and resumed his meal, muttering irritably about 'uppity wenches'.  
  
Mr Cotton's parrot squawked rudely and stumbled around the table, dipping his bright blue head into the nearest mug of ale or rum and giving a very audible hiccup. He flapped his large wings, sending curses and yells into flight as he sprayed potato and bits of sauce in all directions. Head bent low, he scrabbled down the length of the table, claws clicking against the worn wood, evading the grubby hands that managed to get too close for his liking. He gave a high-pitched scream of ecstasy as he flung himself headlong into Gibbs' plate, rolling around in the food with little drunken squeaks of contentment.  
  
At the huge commotion occurring just a few feet away, Gwendolyn smothered a giggle and resisted the temptation to applaud the intoxicated parrot for minimum effort in achieving maximum chaos. Half the table of men now made frantic grabs at the bird, but he screeched angrily and lashed out at the seeking fingers with his large, deathly sharp black beak. Squirming delightedly in his nest of Gibbs' meal, he finally tired of the game and knocked over a mug of ale and attempted to bath in the spilt contents. Stumbling erratically, he gave a short squeak and toppled off the table and landed in a pile of rags on the floor. Silence fell over the cabin, all gazes fixing on Jack as Mr Cotton picked up his scruffy pet and cradled him as gently as if he was a young child.  
  
"Cotton," Jack said slowly, his eyes downcast as he shook his head. Looping his thumbs through his rough belt, he slowly raised his dark eyes to look the mute pirate in directly in the face.  
  
"Tha' damned bird o' yours is one a the best pirates I've ever seen!" The captain's declaration of approval sent a wave of roaring laughter through the cabin. All joined in except for Gibbs, who was quietly mourning over his ruined supper and mopping his ale-soaked shirt front.  
  
As the night wore on, Gwendolyn was almost enticed to join in the festivities. A game of cards had followed the eventful supper, and a merry waft of tobacco smoke hung over the heads of those at play. She was about to crawl closer to get a better look when a hand clapped itself firmly on the back of her neck. The hand then moved to cover her mouth and drag her into a darkened corner. Struggling uselessly, she heard a familiar voice whisper in her ear.  
  
"Yer in no trouble, luv, so quit yeh wigglin'."  
  
She relaxed instantly upon recognizing the voice, but suddenly felt herself being lifted up onto a highly unyielding shoulder. The breath was squeezed from her lungs as she was carried through the cabin much to the delight of the crew. Howls of appreciation rang in her ears, her legs flaying about and her tiny fists pummeling Jack's chest.  
  
"Put me down! I won't be handled in this manner!" Primal instinct took over as she bit and scratched at her captor, all to aware of the fate that may await her outside the cabin. Fear curled itself into a cold iron ball in her belly, but her efforts only elicited a chuckle from the Captain.  
  
"Easy does it, lass, I'll do yeh no harm. Just got a few question for yeh, tis all."  
  
Gwendolyn's tense muscles eased somewhat as she was brought into the open air of the deck and marched into Jack Sparrow's private quarters. Jack had done her no ill turns yet, and she hoped he wasn't about to start. The distinct odour of rum permeated the frigid air, and various maps, bottles and other odds and ends lay scattered about in no particular fashion. The grubby window facing the sea was caked with dirt and dust. However, the odd silvery wedge of moonlight straggled through, bathing the entire premises in a soft glow. An unmade four-poster stood in the middle, and Gwendolyn's gaze was drawn to the bundle of crumpled, tangled linen in the center of the mattress. The Captain's harsh laugh rang in her ears, and she recoiled, a violent blush rising in her cheeks.  
  
" I thought I made it clear, lass, that a bit of a shag is not what I want from yeh. But if yer offerin' ." A warm glint of wickedness sparkled in his eyes as he dumped her in a chair next to a bureau that looked as if had seen better days. A rough map was tacked to the surface, and there was a small knife stuck in the words 'Port Royale'. Gwendolyn traced the pale blue, green and black lines criss-crossing the map with detached interest. She refused to allow Jack to continually bait her, and remained silent. He pulled up a scarred three-legged stool and seated himself in front of her, his fingers fiddling with a ring of keys, which he used to unlock a draw in the bureau, and produced from it her broken manacles.  
  
The metal shone dully in the faint glow of light emitted from the oil lamp on the nearby table-top. Fearsome shadows played about the walls, quivering ghoulishly with the rolling motion of the waves. Her heart thudded erratically against her rib cage, a thousand painful memories screaming in her mind.  
  
An odd expression arrested Jack's features as he patted one of her hands awkwardly.  
  
"Yeh look as white as a sheet, luv," he said gently, an instant wave of guilt washing over him at the grilling he had to put her through.  
  
"Ask your questions," was her whispered reply. Jack leaned back on the stool, clumping his boots carelessly on top of the bureau.  
  
"Well, lass . To start at the beginnin', so ta speak, how'd ya land yeh sorry self on that there island we hauled yeh off?" He picked his fingernails idly with the end of his cutlass, his gaze trained on the limp figure that slumped so helplessly in its chair.  
  
Even though he knew part of her answer, Jack was determined to discover the extent of her honesty. If she told what he knew to be the truth, then he just may be able to glean a little information and insight into the fabled myth of Konrad's Cavern. If the legends were true, and he somehow managed to find the damn place, the booty could ensure his retirement. With renewed enthusiasm for his task, he settled back on the painfully low stool for what he anticipated would be a long night ahead. Unfortunately, he thought, gold teeth glinting in the semi-darkness, not for the right reasons.  
  
Noticing his lewd grin, Gwendolyn straightened her shoulders a little, her pale green eyes narrowed suspiciously. Her shoulders slumped, the answer to his question lying heavily in her heart and memory. A glaze crept over her eyes, the once smooth porcelain skin of her forehead wrinkling with some far-away concern. Her lips slightly parted with fluttering breath, she looked like she was altogether lost in her own world from which there was no easy return. Jack waved a grimy hand in front of her face, snapping his ring-covered fingers in an attempt to draw her from her trance. She shook her head slowly, the dark circles of fatigue throw into sharp relief as the oil lamp flared and then faded once more.  
  
"Forgive me," she said, her voice was almost whisper soft and Jack had to strain to hear it, despite his close proximity to her.  
  
"It's something I would rather forget, but considering I live on your hospitality alone, I suppose I owe you no less than a detailed account."  
  
She drew in a deep breath and began to talk, her soft voice monotonous, her expression blank. Throughout the entire time she relayed her story to him, she never flinched, never moved from her seat. Her gaze in no way met his, her eyes fixed immovably on a floorboard as her voice droned on. Only when she arrived at the very reason she was cast from The Marauder did she change her tone of voice. She lifted her eyes from the floor to meet his. Her voice was soft, almost pleading.  
  
"I didn't want to do it. I really didn't. But he MADE me. He was going to hurt me. It wasn't my fault."  
  
She twisted fistfuls of her skirt between her fingers, the woven fabric renting and fraying beneath her fingers. A rather stunned Jack said nothing. He simply stared at her, his steepled fingers resting against his lips.  
  
"The Captain was raging mad. After that he had me put in those." She motioned to the manacles in his hands.  
  
"The next day at sunset he stripped me of my clothing, cut into my back with his dagger and made me walk the plank. I managed to swim to the shore of this little island and blacked out, I'm not sure how long I was there before your crew rescued me."  
  
At that, her already pale face turned a faintly yellow and green hue before she rushed past him and onto the deck. Jack cringed inwardly, and strolled out of his quarters to find her bent over the Pearl's railing on the lower deck. He patted her back gingerly and held restrained her hair as she lost what little food she consumed to the rough swell of the ocean.  
  
The moon hung like a shining silver coin in the sky, amid a wide, luxurious expanse of the deepest navy velvet pin-pricked with a celestial needle, allowing bright spots of white light to beam through. The ocean rolled in dark waves of polished ebony, gently buffeting the Pearl this way and that. Jack smiled fondly as Gwendolyn's body convulsed beneath his hold. There truly was nothing like the open ocean.  
  
It took him a fair while to realize that she had stopped vomiting and was just hanging limply in his grasp. He heaved a sigh and threw her over his shoulder for the second time that night. Bloody wenches. Faintin' at the drop of a hat. Mind you, he mused, she has been through a mighty nasty bit of business. He dumped her back in her chair in his cabin, pondering over how to bring her round. He wasn't finished with her yet. He settled on waving a bottle of rum under her nose. She coughed and groaned, her hands clutching at her midsection.  
  
"Wake up, lass!" He barked irritably.  
  
She watched him through puffy eyelids and bloodshot eyes.  
  
"What?" She croaked, shutting her eyes again in rebellion.  
  
"Focus lass, focus!" He shook her shoulders, and she glared at him blearily.  
  
"Do ya know anythin' bout what's carved on yeh bindins?" He prodded, grasping her chin in his hands and raising the broken restraints to eye level.  
  
She squinted and peered at the wavering images. After a few breath-stealing moments for the Captain, she shook her head.  
  
"No, I've never seen anything like it in my life. Except ."  
  
Gwendolyn paused, her brow furrowed as she attempted to remember the elusive circumstance.  
  
"It was on a necklace that had been in the family for generations. A locket, it was. Made from white-gold. Those pictures were carved on the back, like whoever made it didn't want it to be seen. Nobody knows whom it belonged to anymore. A kind of mystery heirloom, really. It was always kept up in a little glass box on the mantle in the sitting room. It was one of Ma's favourites. But when Pa went broke, it was one of the first things Captain Hernandez took for 'compensation'."  
  
The last few words were laced with bitterness and something close to loathing. She looked up at him with glassy, red eyes that begged for relief. Her arms were wrapped around her body tightly and she was rocking herself in a steady rhythm.  
  
"Please," she whispered brokenly, "Can I go to sleep now?"  
  
A stab of pity unwittingly pierced Jack Sparrow straight through his chest. He desperately yearned to ask her further questions about the necklace she had mentioned, but saw the overwhelming weariness in her face and relented. They had plenty of time for more questions in the days ahead.  
  
"Aye, lass, yeh can go to sleep now."  
  
She smiled serenely, a strangely disarming smile, he thought.  
  
She drifted off exactly where she sat, so Jack picked up one of the untangled sheets off the bed and laid it carefully across her sleeping form. He watched her a moment, her perfectly clam, peaceful expression stirring envy deep within. He wished he could sleep that peacefully.  
  
~*~  
  
Bent over a map, Jack Sparrow stood wearily at his bureau the next morning. Sleep had eluded him, and once again he had spent the night staring at the strange symbols on the iron shackles, trying to make some kind of sense of his new-found information. Streaks of pink, gold and orange shot with red lit up the horizon as the sun ascended heavenward. The steady lull of the sea slapping against the hull of the Black Pearl did nothing to induce drowsiness for the Captain that was running on pure adrenalin.  
  
"Anamaria! Set course for Port Royale!" He growled, rubbing the rough stubble that covered the usually smooth areas of his face.  
  
" But Captain, we're too low on supplies to make it to Port Royale!" She fired back, spinning the wheel expertly to negotiate a particularly large wave.  
  
" Well bugger me dead." He cursed softly, skewing a hand through his long, unkempt hair.  
  
"Then make a turn into Tortuga!" Jack cried, feeling the impatience bubble up inside him, one hand grasping Gwendolyn's irons in white-knuckled grip.  
  
When I do get to Port Royale, he thought savagely, that bloody eunuch Will Turner better have a damn good explanation ready.  
  
Author's Note: Please write me a long, lengthy review. The review button is just there, click and write! :) 


	6. One Step Backward

Author's Note: Sorry to keep you all waiting this long, this chapter has been ready to post for over a month. I've been terrible busy and distracted, as its my senior year *yay me*. So please bear with me. Thank you to all those who have continued to review faithfully, I love you all. This fiction may be temporarily put on hold, until the next set of holidays, when I can belt out a chapter, or three. ^_^  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Captain Carlos Hernandez mounted a stool by the bar and slammed his fist against the worn smooth surface, demanding a bottle of brandy from the scantily clad woman behind the counter. In response, she pointed to her ear and mouthed a few unintelligible words, the level of the noise in the bar drowned out the most precisely spoken request. Hernandez bent over the counter, dark fire burning in gaze like smouldering coals. He slit the woman's dress down the center, watching blood from tiny cuts trickle down her front with a chillingly primal expression. He licked his thin lips in anticipation, and ran his tongue over the few droplets of glimmering blood that remained on the blade.  
  
The woman's face drained of colour, and she hurriedly slapped a bottle of the nearest available alcohol in front of him and practically flew to the opposite end of the bar. Even for the rough lot that frequented Tortuga, in taverns such as the Thief's Den, the tall, dark haired man seated at the bar was uncommonly vicious. A soft laugh slipped through his lips as he watched the silly wench waddle away to attempt to fix her ruined bodice. He took a swig from the bottle in front of him; pleased to see that it was the brandy he wanted. As he drank, he heard the familiar tinkle of the fine chain and locket that he had extracted from his last debt collection in Ireland. Patting his shirt pocket, he removed the coveted item and laced the chain between his fingers. The white gold glowed with an ethereal light in the dim, smoky confines of the tavern.  
  
"An unusual piece," he murmured to himself, turning it over in his hands to examine it at every angle. It was then that he spotted the crude carvings on the back of the locket. Damn, marred. It wouldn't fetch nearly as high a price with that kind of damage. Nevertheless, it had to be sold off. No sense in keeping it.  
  
Principally, Hernandez had stopped in Tortuga to unload some of his 'cargo'. Bolts of fine lace, silk, leather and damask. He also was in the possession of other odds and ends like such as chocolate, spices, tea leaves and coffee beans. The remaining booty of his last raid of a merchant vessel off the coast of Portugal had encumbered him with such useless objects, and he intended to sell them off at the usual exorbitant prices that the foolish occupants of Tortuga paid for such items. Gold sounded much more pleasant in his pocket than the hull of his ship filled with supplies he would never use.  
  
Deciding to get rid of the necklace that night and seek out his buyers for the other goods the next day, he cast one eye around the bar to try and get an idea of who would be interested in purchasing his wares. He spotted a filthy, drunken old man in the corner and grinned. Despite his slovenly appearance, it was clear the drunkard was quite well off if one looked closely. Swaggering confidently, Hernandez seated himself opposite the old man and clapped him roughly on the shoulder. The old man stirred and eyed Hernandez beadily out of one blood shot eye.  
  
"What yeh be wantin', lad?" He slurred, tugging his hat further down over his eyes.  
  
Hernandez gritted his teeth at the demeaning term, but pasted on a smile and placed the necklace on the table between them.  
  
"A bit of your time, and possibly, a fair agreement."  
  
The old man said nothing, but picked up the necklace, running his fingers of the warm, tingling metal facets and links that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. As he turned it over, he spotted the carvings. Before he could comment, Hernandez spoke.  
  
" A few scratches, easily hidden."  
  
This elicited an intense laugh that turned into hacking coughs as the old man whacked his fist repeatedly into his chest to control the fit. Infuriated, Hernandez made a grab for the necklace but the old man clutched it possessively. The craggy folds of skin in the man's face deepened as he stared fixatedly at the carvings, the glow of the white gold reflected in his small, dark eyes.  
  
"Lad, if yeh had any idea wha' this little trinket was, yeh would'na be sellin' ta me."  
  
"And why would that be?" Hernandez tried his best to sound casual, to hide the curiosity that was building inside of him. What could be so important about a silly little necklace?  
  
"These," the old man motioned to the tiny, jagged symbols on the back of the locket, "are the markin's of the O'Reillys. One of the few families commit'd ta piracy in tha Shamrock Isle. Most famous was Konrad O'Reilly. Legend has it that him 'n' his family have a huge horde of treasure somewhere in the Caribbean. Travelled a long way from home, they did. O'course, piracy died outta the blood a fair time ago."  
  
He paused, gauging Hernandez's reaction.  
  
"That's the most bloody laughable thing I have ever heard! There were never any pirates from Ireland!" Hernandez chortled rudely, and took another long pull on the bottle of brandy he had carted with him to the table. What an old wives tale! An inaccurate one, at that!  
  
"Listen, boy," the old man growled, "it be true, but as I told yeh, the O'Reillys gave up piracy bafore yeh were born. As I was sayin, anythin' of the O'Reilly's that turns up could be what yeh need to find tha booty."  
  
At the mention of treasure, Hernandez paid attention.  
  
"Yah see, lad, legend also says that there be one special member of tha' family, that if found, and given whateva it is they need ta open it, can open the cavern where tha booty is hidden. That is why is somethin' of the O'Reilly's turns up, talk of tha legend is started again."  
  
Hernandez's eyes narrowed, and he considered the old man's words carefully.  
  
"If this necklace could be as important as you claim, then why did you bother to try and persuade me to keep it? Surely you want it for yourself."  
  
The old man chuckled, his round stomach bouncing up and down merrily, straining against the soiled velvet of his waistcoat.  
  
"Too great a risk for me, lad. I've been shored up 'ere for a long time. Besides,"  
  
His tone changed, lilting toward a vision of murky waters and a horizon obscured by a deep and unfathomable fog.  
  
"Ya never know what might try ta stop yeh."  
  
With that the old man stood up, swaying slightly, dropping the necklace onto the table with a dull thunk. The chain ran through his fingers like a shimmering liquid, and pooled gracefully onto the ridged surface of the table. It winked and glowed innocently, seeming to send out the faintest of waves that licked at and tempted the observer, pulling them closer, ever closer.  
  
Wham.  
  
Hernadez's hand imprisoned the necklace, his obsidian eyes glowing covetously. The old man broke his gaze, turned about and was swallowed by the rancid darkness as he retreated to another hole in which he could hide himself.  
  
Lifting his callous hand from the necklace, Hernandez found himself drowning in the light, alluringly warm aura that it emitted. The pale golden radiance called to him, and he stroked the gently tinkling links affectionately. No real reason to sell it. Only a little chain after all. Harmless. He was bought back to reality with a thud when a brawl in process found it's way onto his table. Roaring with rage, he snatched the necklace from the table just as two men smashed into the weathered furniture, snapping it easily as one would a matchstick.  
  
Hernandez brooded silently in his new residence, a quiet atmosphere of smoke and unconscious revelers. He had nearly lost one possession which could prove to be invaluable. A small scowl creased the corners of his mouth as he considered the coinciding item that he had tossed to the waves barely two weeks before hand. Perhaps, by some favour of fate, he could regain what was mislaid.  
  
~*~  
  
Fingers, an endless forest of fingers, hands, reaching for her. She tried to run, tried to squirm away from their seeking touch. But she couldn't, she was bound so tight that her restraints cut into her wrists, rubbing them raw and staining them with scarlet. Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream, her breathing ragged as she twisted and turned, desperate for freedom. Suddenly, a large pair of grimy, ring-ridden hands floated towards her and gripped her hard, shaking her until her bones rattled.  
  
"Lass," a voice called, booming through her ears.  
  
"Lass!"  
  
Gwendolyn woke with a start, and gave a little jump to see Captain Sparrow bent over her, his dark brows knitted together with concern. Her breathing slowed, her rib cage rising and falling as reality sunk in. Sunlight streamed through the grimy windows of his quarters, giving the worn wooden furniture a soft golden glow, matching the steady groan of the ship in it's ability to soothe her frayed nerves.  
  
"Yeh sounded like yeh couldn't breathe, luv. Bad dream?"  
  
There was the faintest hint of concern in his voice as he took in her appearance. Her pale, sweaty body was firmly tangled in one of the many bed sheets, and her hair was flung in chaotic disarray about her head. The smile that stretched his lips was lewd as he patted the exposed length of her left thigh, his flamboyant fingers attending to the tightly wound mass of linen.  
  
"Or perhaps," he suggested, his whiskery lips brushing her ear.  
  
"It was a hot bit of stuff." He patted her thigh once more and stroked her hip affectionately, as if utterly fascinated by the planes and curves of her scantily clad form.  
  
She flinched away from him and drew the shroud of off-white fabric around her body, trembling slightly.  
  
"It was just a nightmare," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.  
  
She clutched the sheet tighter, like a talisman against some great evil. But in truth, it was really to protect her from herself. Over the past week or so since the full healing of her wounds, she had found herself becoming increasingly partial towards Jack Sparrow. Her heart and body battled with her common sense, the man was absolutely vile! He was completely dependent upon rum, was never what could be defined as a gentleman and indulged in the most tasteless of occupations. His strange appearance, with his fathomless chocolate eyes lined with black, his braids, beads and bandana did nothing to comfort her. Only ensnare her senses. There was something in the sway of his hips, the swagger to his walk, the slur of his voice that did odd things to her brain. Her thinking never seemed quite straight when she was near him, as if clouded by some impenetrable fog. She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to fight off the thoughts that threatened to engulf her.  
  
"Yeh alright, luv?" Came the voice, floating through her consciousness.  
  
She slowly opened her eyes, a tide of red filling her face as she realized that he was still there, one hand planted either side of her. His closeness shocked her, breaching her defenses as she felt the mattress sag under his weight. Her breath hitched in her lungs as one finger reached out and traced the outline of her lips, travelled to her jaw, down the slender column of her neck and rested on her collar bone, moving in idle circles. His eyes locked with hers, and she could derive nothing from gazing into burnished sienna, streaked with gold. As she inhaled shakily, his scent intoxicated her, and she merely blinked at him, rendered immobile. His grimy fingers toyed with the neckline of her nightdress, which was torn and frayed in so many places that it could hardly be classified as fit to wear any longer.  
  
"Have to get yeh some new clothes, luv," he whispered hoarsely, his breath fanning her cheek.  
  
One hand caressed her thigh, sending radiating waves of heat zinging through her limbs and causing her to shudder forcefully. His smoky gaze pinned her to her spot, forcing a pathetic whimper to push its way past her lips. A little voice in the back of her mind screamed that what was happening was wrong, but it was drowned out by the waves of pleasure washing over her in quick succession. He pressed her back into the lumpy pillows, nipping at her lower lip, teasing her into a frantic state. Her petite arms wound insistently around his neck, tugging him downward, her pale green eyes full of heated confusion.  
  
"Don't start what yeh can't finish, luv," he murmured gently, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead and rolling off the bed.  
  
A loud knock rang through the uncomfortable silence that followed, and Gwendolyn was left sitting upright, her forehead wrinkled with bewilderment, the pain of rejection lancing through her chest. Jack riffled through an open trunk, and tossed a stained white shirt and breeches onto the bed before strolling easily to the door.  
  
He hauled it open and came face to face with Anamaria, who peered past him to see Gwendolyn slowly changing into the garments he had provided her with. The piratess's black brows rose so high they were in danger of disappearing beneath the band of her hat. She curled one finger in Jack's direction, and shut the heavy oak door behind him with a purposeful snap.  
  
"Jack," she began, sounding more than a little exasperated, "what is going on?"  
  
She placed her hands on her hips and tapped the toe of her boot against the deck, her searing dark gaze seeming to painfully extract the truth from him.  
  
"Well," he shifted his gaze to the door, a devilish grin spreading across his features as his brain slowly ticked over. "It's all a matter of leverage."  
  
~*~  
  
Gwendolyn leant over the railing a few hours later, allowing the spray of salty water to wash over her face and calm her raging senses. She still tingled all over at the mere memory of her close encounter with Jack, and questions as to his sudden retreat plagued her.  
  
What did he mean 'don't start what you can't finish'? She was a grown woman, she could handle him! Her mouth went dry as she imagined exactly what 'handling' Jack Sparrow would entail, and she felt two spots of pink forming on her cheeks, as if all present on the Pearl could read her adulterated thoughts. But, she considered, she was not exactly the *worldly* type he would be used to, and ... What was she thinking?! That man wasn't worth an ounce of her time, the way he treated her ... Like some wanton whore. A traitorous murmur whispered in her ear ... But you enjoyed every moment ... She shook her head violently and covered her ears, trying to block out the voices and the giddying memories it brought with it.  
  
"Land Ahoy!" Came the squawk from the crow's nest, as Mr Cotton's parrot flew down and perched on his master's shoulder.  
  
And just as the parrot had predicted, the Black Pearl was steadily cruising toward a lively (if not somewhat volatile looking) dock. A dull roar greeted the crew of the Pearl, and Gwendolyn watched with horror as a massive spume of fire shot up on the shore line, followed by further minor explosions. The last hours of sunlight streaked towards the twilight, softly suffusing the horizon with a blaze of gold. She smelt rather than saw him approaching her from behind, feeling the warm flutter of his rum- scented breath on her neck as he brought his mouth dangerously close to her ear.  
  
"Welcome to Tortuga, luv."  
  
~*~  
  
The crew of the Black Pearl seemed to be in high spirits as they strolled down the misshapen dock. The air was filled with screams and shouts, gales of laughter and growls of fury. Gwendolyn recoiled inwardly when she observed half-dressed women being grabbed at and having fistfuls of money thrust into their palms before being escorted to the run-down shacks that dotted the coastline. The entire crew traipsed into a rowdy inn that sported the name "The Thief's Den" on a swinging, battered board above the door.  
  
Inside, the tavern was filled with the thunderous bellows of conversation and fray alike, the sickeningly thick odour of alcohol and smoke filling her lungs, sticking in her throat like tar. She felt her body being wracked by familiar, uncontrollable spasms. Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to face Jack, his gold teeth glinting in the low light.  
  
"I thought that yeh better 'ave this," he said, holding a small, ivory- handled dagger out to her. But instead of handing it to her, he hauled her close to him and slipped the weapon stealthily into the ragged confines of her makeshift belt.  
  
"Ya know," He said, his breathing rattling in his chest, "to protect yeh from unwant'd advances."  
  
Pressing her hand firmly against the heel of the handle, she felt the sharp blade exert pressure against the leg of his pants. Trembling slightly, she raised one of her eyebrows, and when she spoke, her voice shook.  
  
"You mean, from the likes of yourself?" The words were overflowing with latent anger, but only caused a self-confident grin to spread across Jack Sparrow's face.  
  
"Not exactly, luv."  
  
The wickedly sharp dagger tip pierced the fabric of his trousers and Jack felt a small, stabbing burn in his thigh before the pressure relented.  
  
"Oh really?" A strange light now sparkled menacingly in her eyes.  
  
"So that's the game you want to play, is it, luv? I thought I made it clear to yeh that I always win ..."  
  
Somewhere in the smoky depths of the tavern, a few lonely notes drifted through the air and enveloped the dueling pair. The unspoken challenge seemed to fuse them together, the strains of the violin weaving an unbreakable bond of tension that stifled the atmosphere. The very air around them darkened and thickened, and Gwendolyn felt a hand plant itself firmly on her waist. She raised her gaze to Jack's and saw them glittering like obsidian stones – cold, malicious and filled with an undercurrent of the unmistakable desire to dominate.  
  
"Care to dance, luv?" The casual endearment was laced with poison, and the arrogance in his voice licked at her ire, tempting her to rise to his unspoken dare.  
  
"Of course."  
  
The violin's tempo was languid, and she moved smoothly across the floor, Jack holding her in a painfully tight grip that she was sure would leave pale blue marks on her flesh. "Know this number, luv?" His face was twisted into a sneer, he tugged her closer and then spun her violently away from him. The soul of her shoes boiled at the friction, her head snapping to one side before colliding with his rock-solid chest. The breath was crushed from her lungs, her head spinning giddily on her shoulders. She fumbled for her faculties, and met his probing gaze, her own eyes dark with determination.  
  
"Naturally ... And from the way you treat women, I'm not surprised you know it by heart." Her voice was a breathy gasp, but her stony expression bespoke the suppressed rage begging for release.  
  
The harsh strains of the violin were tearing through her veins. The music seemed to fray her nerves raw, and as she whirled through the endless darkness, colour and noise faded out.  
  
Jack grasped her wrists tightly in his hands, forcing her steps backwards, one, two, three. His face loomed inches from her, electricity crackling in every hard contour of his face.  
  
"I may like a woman's company of a night, but I hurt none of 'em, understand."  
  
The statement hissed out through his gritted teeth, his mouth stretched into a thin white line. A laugh rose in her throat involuntarily, a feral cackle that echoed eerily between them. His hold tightened, and he flung her from him once more, with such force that she felt her ankle wrench from underneath her. A cry of pain welled up in her throat but she forced it down, a mere treacherous gasp slipping past her lips.  
  
The strings of the violin screamed the crescendo, taking all sense of reason with them as they roared in her ears. Fury raged unchecked as she struggled with him, her hands swiping at his face. How she longed to feel her fingernails raking through the flesh of his cheek! She thrashed madly in his grip and he hauled her close, their noses touching, her toes dangling off the ground.  
  
"I always win." The statement was cold, clipped, and full of spite. She spat in his face, her eyes shining with wild defiance. His gaze glowed like fiery coals with a bitter vengeance, and she dimly registered the howl of air rushing past her ears.  
  
Suddenly she was falling, the pressure of Jack's hold was gone, and the unforgiving stone floor was flying up to greet her in a haze of noise and colour. She met it head on, and felt her nose shatter against the gritty, grimy surface. A whimper was torn from her throat as the rest of her body made contact with a sickening crunch. She rolled herself over, white-hot knives thrusting deeply into battered frame. She felt blood flowing thick and fast from her broken nose, and tried to curtail the stream with her trembling hands.  
  
Gwendolyn lifted her glassy eyes to where Jack had stood, to see his retreating boots, accompanied by a pair of dark heeled shoes. A long white arm stretched to encompass his shoulders, beckoning him into a cloud of sordid shadows.  
  
A hard lump of misery formed in her throat, and she was gathering the strength to move when a disturbingly familiar voice hissed in her ear.  
  
"So, my little mujerzuela, we meet again ..."  
  
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